The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 8

by Beth Brower

Forgive yourself for having let yourself down, even while you were holding others up.

“I wait on the shore of the mystery to see what the tide will bring.”

a fellow so irritating I wish he were stupid. He’s not.

I have taken my insignificance for granted. One’s anonymity is not a thing to give away.

A smirking, misty, opinionated rain today.

Quality is ever my watchword.”

“She judges All and Sundry in silence until, at regular intervals, she clangs out an opinion as if she were a bell. Most uncomfortable for those of us who prefer to share our judgements freely, without discretion.”

“I’ve included several asides, general impressions, or humble complaints.”

The Alamo is not a dance.

Heavens, the woman’s hat has a rather ambitious number of feathers, hasn’t it?” “We might consider the regularity of our poultry,”

No great desire to change the shape of her world.”

Grief understands grief.

“May is a pleasant month for a birthday.”

The month is getting away from me. It’s practically sprinting away.

Hearts are intricate stretches of land.

The glass itself looked like summer frost in the sunlight.

this room, this very small room, made me feel something I’d not experienced before. It was dear. It was to be safeguarded. I felt the desire to take off my shoes.

the laden bookshelves, a beloved jungle of words.

I could not tell how far he had come. But it felt a great distance.

feel I’ve potential for a life north of mediocre.)

He did not look amicable, but one might just be lucky to count him as friend.

He spoke with weight, as if he were handing me a stone.

spoke with weight, as if he were handing me a stone.

I was liking him and disliking him by turns.

was liking him and disliking him by turns.

All related thoughts end with the realisation that a good deal of life is watching those we love consider the stupidest of possibilities.

“I wandered lonely as a cloud.”

He was watching my face with an expression akin to gentleness.

It is a potent threat, the process of caring for someone at increasing intervals.

We can never have enough of nature. – Henry David Thoreau

“Wealth, cleverness, and praise are not the same as excellence of character,

“But do also be clever, if you can.”

“Wordsworth,”

All things that love the sun are out of doors; The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; The grass is bright with rain-drops;—on the moors The hare is running races in her mirth; And with her feet she from the plashy earth Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

Every morning should begin with a cello.

This is a place that knows every old thing.

“How did you know it was I sitting here?”

“Because,”

“you slip throug...

And I was left thinking that was perhaps the loveliest sp...

Answer: Yes. There he sat, head bent, listening

We did not traverse much ground physically. Most of the afternoon was spent at the river bend, each lost in the pages of our books. Once in a while a pebble of words would be thrown into the stillness.

We would let the words ripple, and then return to our own pages.

“How does one manage, Hawkes?” He did not ask what. He simply waited for whatever words would follow. “May took hold of my life and ran raggedly about London. Not only May. Before that. April. March! How does one ever manage to become master of their own fate? Is it even possible?” “Quietly,” Hawkes said. “Quietly,” I repeated, then, “Quietly?”

Rain was coming, and every living thing was in wait.

That every day should leave some part Free for a sabbath of the heart.

The late afternoon began to stretch itself awake like a cat having napped all day.

He was not of equal rank or fortune, but there was a self-respect independent of class.

they greeted one another in a manner usually reserved for one deeply disliked.

one can love many places and still miss home.